A Torch Against the Night

by Sabaa Tahir

  Until Blackcliff, anyway.

  Ignore her, I tell myself. I can't have her accusations ringing in my ears when I meet with the Snake.

  "You should have stayed in prison," Hannah says. "You're not worth Father going to the Emperor and begging--begging on hands and knees."

  Bleeding skies, Father. No. He shouldn't have lowered himself--not on my behalf. I look down at my hands, enraged when I feel my eyes burn with tears. Bleeding hells, I'm about to face off with Marcus. I don't have time for guilt or tears.

  "Hannah." My mother's voice is steel, so unlike her usual gentle self. "Leave."

  My sister lifts her chin in challenge before turning and ambling out, as if it's her idea to go. You'd have made an excellent Mask, sister.

  "Livvy," Mother says after a minute. "Make sure she doesn't take her anger out on the slaves."

  "Probably too late for that," Livvy mutters as she walks out. As I try to rise, Mother puts a hand on my shoulder and pushes me down into the seat with surprising force.

  She dabs at a wicked, deep cut in my scalp with a stinging ointment. Her cool fingers turn my face one way and then another, her eyes sad mirrors of my own.

  "Oh, my girl," she whispers. I feel shaky, suddenly, like I want to collapse into her arms and never leave their safety.

  Instead I push her hands away.

  "Enough." Better she think me impatient than too soft. I cannot show her the wounded parts of me. I cannot show anyone those parts. Not when my strength is the only thing that will serve me now. And not when I'm minutes away from meeting with the Snake.

  I have a mission for you, he'd said. What will he have me do? Quell the revolution? Punish the Scholars for their insurrection? Too easy. Worse possibilities come to mind. I try not to think about them.

  Beside me, Mother sighs. Her eyes fill, and I stiffen. I'm about as good with tears as I am with declarations of love. But her tears don't spill over. She hardens herself--something she has been forced to learn as the mother of a Mask--and reaches for my armor. Silently, she helps me pull it on.

  "Blood Shrike." Father appears in the doorway a few minutes later. "It's time."

  *

  Emperor Marcus has taken up residence in Villa Veturia.

  In Elias's home.

  "At the Commandant's urging, no doubt," my father says, as guards wearing Veturia colors open the villa's gate to us. "She'll want to keep him close."

  I wish he'd picked anywhere else. Memory assails me as we pass through the courtyard. Elias is everywhere, his presence so strong that I know if I just turn my head, he'll be inches away, shoulders thrown back in careless grace, a quip on his lips.

  But of course he's not here, and neither is his grandfather, Quin. In their places are dozens of Gens Veturia soldiers watching the walls and roofs. The pride and disdain that were the Veturia hallmark under Quin are gone. Instead, an undercurrent of sullen fear ripples through the courtyard. A whipping post is haphazardly erected in one corner. Fresh blood spatters the cobblestones around it.

  I wonder where Quin is now. Somewhere safe, I hope. Before I helped him escape into the desert north of Serra, he gave me a warning. You watch your back, girl. You're strong, and she'll kill you for it. Not outright. Your family is too important for that. But she'll find a way. I didn't have to ask him whom he was talking about.

  My father and I enter the villa. Here's the foyer where Elias greeted me after our graduation. The marble staircase we raced down as children, the drawing room where Quin entertained, the butler's pantry at its back, where Elias and I spied on him.

  By the time Father and I are escorted to Quin's library, I am scrambling for control over my thoughts. It's bad enough that Marcus, as Emperor, can order me to do his bidding. I cannot also allow him to see me mourning Elias. He'll use such weakness to his advantage--I know it.

  You're a Mask, Aquilla. Act like one.

  "Blood Shrike." Marcus looks up at my entry, my title somehow insulting on his lips. "Pater Aquillus. Welcome."

  I'm not sure what to expect when we enter. Marcus lounging among a harem of bruised and beaten women, perhaps.

  Instead, he's in full battle armor, his cape and weapons bloodied, as if he's been in the midst of the fighting. Of course. He's always loved the gore and adrenaline of battle.

  Two Veturia soldiers stand at the window. The Commandant is at Marcus's side, pointing to a map on the desk before them. As she leans forward, I catch a glimmer of silver beneath her uniform.

  The bitch is wearing the shirt she stole from me.

  "As I was saying, my lord." The Commandant nods in greeting, before picking up the thread of the conversation. "Warden Sisellius of Kauf must be dealt with. He was cousin to the old Shrike and shared intelligence from Kauf's prisoner interrogations with him. It was the reason the Shrike was able to keep such a tight rein on internal dissent."

  "I can't look for your traitorous son, fight the rats' revolution, bend the Illustrian Gens to my will, deal with border attacks, and take on one of the most powerful men in the Empire, Commandant." Marcus has taken to his authority naturally. As if he's been waiting for it. "Do you know how many secrets the Warden knows? He could raise an army with a few words. Until we have the rest of the Empire sorted, we leave the Warden be. You're dismissed. Pater Aquillus." Marcus glances at my father. "Go with the Commandant. She will handle the details of our . . . arrangement."

  Arrangement. The terms of my release. Father still has not told me what they were.

  But I can't ask now. Father follows the Commandant and the two Veturia soldiers out. The study door slams behind them. Marcus and I are alone.

  He turns to regard me. I can't meet his glance. Every time I stare into his yellow eyes, I see my nightmares. I expect him to revel in my weakness. To whisper in my ear about the dark things we both see, the way he's been doing for weeks. I wait for his approach, for his attack. I know what he is. I know what he's been threatening me with for months.

  But he clenches his jaw and half lifts his hand, like he's about to wave away a mosquito. Then he exerts control over himself, a vein popping at his temple.

  "It appears, Aquilla, that you and I are stuck with each other, as Emperor and Shrike." He spits the words at me. "Until one of us is dead, anyway."

  I am surprised at the bitterness in his voice. His cat eyes are fixed in the distance. Without Zak beside him, he doesn't seem fully present--half a person instead of a whole. He was . . . younger around Zak. Still cruel, still horrible, but relaxed. Now he seems older and harder and, perhaps most terrifyingly, wiser.

  "Then why didn't you just kill me in the prison?" I say.

  "Because I enjoyed watching your father beg." Marcus grins, a flash of his old self. The smile fades. "And because the Augurs seem to have a soft spot for you. Cain paid me a visit. Insisted that killing you would lead to my own doom." The Snake shrugs. "To be honest, I'm tempted to slit your throat just to see what happens. Perhaps I still will. But for now, I have a mission for you."

  Control, Aquilla. "I'm yours to command, my lord."

  "The Black Guard--your men now--have thus far failed to locate and secure the rebel Elias Veturius."

  No.

  "You know him. You know how he thinks. You will hunt him down and bring him back in chains. Then you will torture him and execute him. Publicly."

  Hunt. Torture. Execute.

  "My lord." I can't do it. I can't. "I am Blood Shrike. I should be quelling the revolution--"

  "The revolution is quelled," Marcus says. "Your assistance is unnecessary."

  I knew this would happen. I knew he'd send me after Elias. I knew it because I dreamt it. But I didn't think it would be so soon.

  "I've just become leader of the Black Guard," I say. "I need to get to know my men. My duties."

  "But first you must be an example to them. What better example than catching the Empire's greatest traitor? Don't worry about the rest of the Black Guard. They'll take orders from me while you're on this miss
ion."

  "Why not send the Commandant?" I try to suppress the desperation in my voice. The more it shows, the more he'll revel in it.

  "Because I need someone ruthless to crush the revolution," Marcus says.

  "You mean you need an ally at your side."

  "Don't be stupid, Aquilla." He shakes his head in disgust and begins pacing. "I don't have allies. I have people who owe me things and people who want things and people who use me and people whom I use. In the Commandant's case, the wanting and the using is mutual, so she will remain. She suggested that you hunt down Elias as a test of loyalty. I agreed with her suggestion."

  The Snake stops his pacing.

  "You swore to be my Shrike, the sword that executes my will. Now is your chance to prove your loyalty. The vultures circle, Aquilla. Don't make the mistake of thinking I'm too stupid to see it. Veturius's escape is my first failure as Emperor, and the Illustrians already use it against me. I need him dead." He meets my eyes and leans forward, knuckles bloodless as he clenches the desk. "And I want you to be the one who kills him. I want you to watch the light die in his eyes. I want him to know it's the person he cares for most in the world who shoved a blade through his heart. I want it to haunt you for all of your days."

  There is more than just hatred in Marcus's eyes. For a fleeting, indiscernible moment, there is guilt.

  He wants me to be like him. He wants Elias to be like Zak.

  The name of Marcus's twin hovers between us, a ghost that will come to life if we only say the word. We both know what happened on the battlefield of the Third Trial. Everyone does. Zacharias Farrar was killed--stabbed in the heart by the man standing before me.

  "Very well, Your Majesty." My voice comes out strong, smooth. My training kicks in. The surprise on Marcus's face makes it gratifying.

  "You'll begin immediately. I'll be receiving daily reports--the Commandant has chosen a Black Guard to keep us appraised of your progress."

  Naturally. I turn to go, my stomach churning as I reach for the door handle.

  "One more thing," Marcus says, forcing me to turn, my teeth gritted, "don't even think about telling me that you're unable to catch Veturius. He's sly enough to escape the bounty hunters quite easily. But you and I both know that he would never be able to escape you." Marcus cocks his head, calm, collected, and full of hatred.

  "Happy hunting, Blood Shrike."

  *

  My feet carry me away from Marcus and his terrible command, out the door of Quin Veturius's study. Beneath my ceremonial armor, blood from a wound soaks through a dressing. I skim a finger over the wound, pressing lightly, then harder. Pain lances through my torso, narrowing my sight to what is before me.

  I must track Elias. Catch him. Torture him. Kill him.

  My hands curl into fists. Why did Elias have to break his oath to the Augurs, to the Empire? He's seen what life is like beyond these borders: In the Southern Lands, there are more monarchies than people, each kinglet scheming to conquer the rest. In the northwest, the Wildmen of the tundra trade babies and women for firepowder and liquor. And south of the Great Wastes, the Barbarians of Karkaus live to reave and rape.

  The Empire is not perfect. But we have held strong against the backward traditions of the broken lands beyond our borders for five centuries now. Elias knows that. And still he turned his back on his people.

  On me.

  Doesn't make a difference. He's a threat to the Empire. A threat I must deal with.

  But I love him. How do I kill the man I love?

  The girl I was, the girl who hoped, the weak little bird--that girl beats her wings and tosses her head against the confusion of it. What of the Augurs and their promises? You'd kill him, your friend, your comrade in arms, your everything, the only one you've ever--

  I silence that girl. Focus.

  Veturius has been gone for six days now. If he were alone and anonymous, trapping him would be like trying to trap smoke. But the news of his escape--and the reward--will force him to be more careful. Will it be enough to give bounty hunters a shot at him? I scoff. I've seen Elias rob half a camp of such mercenaries without any of them the wiser. He'll run circles around them, even injured, even hunted.

  But then there's the girl. Slower. Less experienced. A distraction.

  Distractions. Him, distracted. By her. Distracted because he and she--because they--

  None of that, Helene.

  Raised voices pull my attention outward, away from the frailty within. I hear the Commandant speaking from the drawing room, and I tense. She just left with my father. Does she dare to raise her voice to the Pater of Gens Aquilla?

  I stride forward to shove open the cracked door of the drawing room. One of the benefits of being Blood Shrike is that I outrank everyone but the Emperor. I can dress the Commandant down and she can do nothing about it if Marcus isn't there.

  Then I stop. Because the voice that responds does not belong to my father.

  "I told you that your desire to dominate her would be problematic."

  The voice makes me shudder. It also reminds me of something: the efrits in the Second Trial, the way their voices sounded like the wind. But the efrits were a summer storm. This voice is a winter gale.

  "If the Cook offends you, you can kill her yourself."

  "I have limitations, Keris. She is your creation. See to it. She has already cost us. The Resistance leader was essential. And now he's dead."

  "He can be replaced." The Commandant pauses, choosing her words carefully. "And forgive me, my lord, but how can you speak to me of obsession? You did not tell me who the slave-girl was. Why are you so interested in her? What is she to you?"

  A long, tense pause. I take a step back, wary now of whatever is in that room with the Commandant.

  "Ah, Keris. Busy in your spare time, I see? Learning about her? Who she is . . . who her parents were . . ."

  "It was easy enough to find out once I knew what to look for."

  "The girl is not your concern. I tire of your questioning. Small victories have made you daring, Commandant. Do not let them make you stupid. You have your orders. Carry them out."

  I step out of sight just as the Commandant leaves the room. She stalks down the hallway, and I wait until her footsteps fade before coming out from around the corner--and finding myself face to face with the other speaker.

  "You were listening."

  My skin feels clammy, and I find I'm clutching the hilt of my scim. The figure before me appears to be a normal man in simple garb, his hands gloved, his hood low to shadow his face. I look away from him immediately. Some lizard instinct screams at me to walk on. But I find, to my alarm, that I can't move.

  "I am Blood Shrike." I take no strength from my rank but square my shoulders anyway. "I can listen where I wish."

  The figure tilts its head and sniffs, as if scenting the air around me.

  "You've been gifted." The man sounds mildly surprised. I shudder at the raw darkness of his voice. "A healing power. The efrits woke it. I smell it. The blue and white of winter, the green of first spring."

  Bleeding skies. I want to forget about the strange, life-draining power I used on Elias and Laia.

  "I don't know what you're talking about." The Mask within takes over.

  "It will destroy you if you're not careful."

  "And how would you know?" Who is this man--if he's even a man?

  The figure lifts a gloved hand to my shoulder and sings one note, high, like birdsong. So unexpected, considering the gravelly depths of his voice. Fire lances through my body, and I grit my teeth together to keep from screaming.

  But when the pain fades, my body aches less, and the man gestures at the mirror on a far wall. The bruises on my face are not gone, but they are considerably lighter.

  "I would know." The creature ignores my slack-jawed shock. "You should find a teacher."

  "Are you volunteering?" I must be insane to say it, but the thing makes a queer sound that might be a laugh.

  "I a
m not." He sniffs again, as if considering. "Perhaps . . . one day."

  "What--who are you?"

  "I'm the Reaper, girl. And I go to collect what is mine."

  At this, I dare to look into the man's face. A mistake, for in place of eyes he has stars blazing out like the fires of the hells. As he meets my gaze, a bolt of loneliness rolls through me. And yet to call it loneliness is not enough. I feel bereft. Destroyed. As if everyone and everything I care about has been ripped from my arms and cast into the ether.

  The creature's gaze is a writhing abyss, and as my sight goes red and I stagger back into the wall, I realize I am not staring into his eyes. I am staring into my future.

  I see it for a moment. Pain. Suffering. Horror. All that I love, all that matters to me, awash in blood.

  IX: Laia

  Raider's Roost juts into the air like a colossal fist. It blots out the horizon, its shadow deepening the gloom of the mist-cloaked desert. From here, it looks still and abandoned. But the sun has long since set, and I cannot trust my eyes. Deep in the labyrinthine cracks of that great rock, the Roost teems with the dregs of the Empire.

  I glance at Elias to see his hood has slipped back. When I pull it up, he does not stir, and worry twists in my belly. He has been in and out for the past three days, but his last seizure was especially violent. The bout of unconsciousness that followed lasted for more than a day--the longest stretch yet. I do not understand as much as Pop about healing, but even I know that this is bad.

  Before, Elias at least muttered, as if he was fighting the poison. But he hasn't spoken a word for hours. I'd be happy if he said anything. Even if it was more about Helene Aquilla and her ocean-colored eyes--a comment I found unexpectedly irritating.

  He's slipping away. And I cannot let it happen.

  "Laia." At Elias's voice, I nearly fall off the horse in surprise.

  "Thank the skies." I look back to find his warm skin is gray and drawn, his pale eyes burning with fever.

  He looks up at the Roost and then at me. "I knew you'd get us here." For a moment, he's his old self: warm, full of life. He peers over my shoulder at my fingers--chafed from four days of clutching the reins--and takes the leather straps from me.

  For an awkward few seconds, he holds his arms away from me, as if I might take umbrage at his closeness. So I lean back against his chest, feeling safer than I have in days, like I've suddenly acquired a layer of armor. He relaxes, dropping his forearms to my hips, and the weight of them sends a flutter up my spine.